


A Song of Gold and Crimson

by LionessoftheRock



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Brother/Sister Incest, Character Study-ish, Meaningful conversations that end in smut, Pre-Canon, Twincest, When they were happy and not falling apart like they are now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-05-04 19:46:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5346362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LionessoftheRock/pseuds/LionessoftheRock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Is it Robert?” he asks.</p>
<p> Cersei rolls her eyes with enough force to fell a small man, “What else?”</p>
<p> “What do I need to add to the list of reasons to kill him?”</p>
<p>She lets out a quiet, wry chuckle. “You don’t have enough already?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Song of Gold and Crimson

**Author's Note:**

> Somehow, this became The Only Ship that Matters, and thus this fic was born. Turns out complicated, dysfunctional relationships give me feelings.

A Song of Gold and Crimson

 

 

He found her in some barely-used room of some barely-used tower (ostensibly, it was a sleeping chamber for guests, due to the conspicuously ordinary bed tucked in the corner sporting plain white sheets covered in a thin layer of dust), but Jaime didn’t care enough to actually find out.

 

He doubt Cersei did, either.

 

She is seated on the green velvet window seat, the perfect picture of elegance and poise, aside from the fact that she’s crying softly.

 

When she hears footsteps, she looks up quickly and begins digging the heels of her hands furiously against her cheeks to erase any trace of her un-queenly tears until she sees who her visitor is. At which point she gives him the smallest and saddest of smiles and lets her tears continue unbidden.

 

Cersei was never afraid to expose her inner sufferings to her brother; her pain was his pain, too.

 

_One person in two bodies…_

 

He sits next to her on the seat and she buries her head in his chest, grabbing onto his shoulders as if she were in the middle of Blackwater Bay and he were a Spear of the Merling King, the only thing keeping her from being swept away by the onslaught of the current.

 

Which, to Cersei, he is.

 

When she stills, he threads his hand through her soft, golden hair and lifts her face, so like his, to meet his eyes, so like hers.

 

“Is it Robert?” he asks.

 

Cersei rolls her eyes with enough force to fell a small man, “What else?”

 

“What do I need to add to the list of reasons to kill him?”

 

She lets out a quiet, wry chuckle. “You don’t have enough already?”

 

“It seems the more I hate an enemy, the more effective I am at killing them.”

 

“Please. A _child_ could vanquish Robert. All it would take is a few cups of strong wine and a walk around the ramparts-he’d be so drunk he’d probably fall right off.” He sees her eyes shift almost imperceptibly, mentally filing this away as a possible plan of action to add to the ever-growing list they began a month after her wedding.

 

“That seems depressingly anticlimactic.”

 

“He’s hardly the type to deserve a glorious death.”

 

Jaime has to smile at that. He disagrees, of course-no one should vanquish the queen’s enemies other than her most trusted knight-but he has to smile.

 

Cersei pulls up the sleeve of her dress to reveal a string of fresh bruises. “He was going out to gods-know-where, probably to visit one of his _whores_ ,” she spat out the word like it was a piece of rotten apple, “When I suggested that, perhaps, he should find it in him to spend some time with his _son_. Well, he didn’t like _that_ at all. He was already half-drunk, kept saying he’ll have plenty of years to spend with his son, that taking care of children was a woman’s job, that I was in no place to tell him what to do. When I screamed at him that Joffrey would have to succeed him someday and that maybe he should find out what being a king really means, Robert grabbed me. He hit and twisted my arm so hard I thought he might have broken it. He kept yelling about how none of this was his responsibility. That it wouldn’t matter what he said because I’d probably already debauched our son by now.”

 

“One of these days, I _will_ kill him.”

 

“Only if I don’t do it first.”

 

Cersei looks out the window, eyes clouding over with some indefinable thought. “What happens when Joffrey isn’t three years old anymore? How am I going to explain to him why the man he sees as his father wants nothing to do with his mother?” She couldn’t explain to her son that the world wasn’t fair, couldn’t let this beautiful creature, this part of herself she loved more than anything in the world, see how awful that world was. Because the moment she told him of the world’s corruption was the moment when she had to admit that he was part of that world. She would have to admit that she might not be able to keep him safe from it. And she couldn’t lose him, not Joffrey, not the one thing she had in her life that didn’t come from Robert.

 

The one thing that was just hers and Jaime’s.

 

“Maybe he’ll never ask.”

 

“He has both of our stubbornness. He’ll ask.”

 

(She’s right, obviously.)

 

“I knew my husband had no respect for women. I just never thought such disrespect would apply to _children_ , especially one he thinks is his own.”

 

“Maybe, somehow…instinctually…he knows.”

 

“He doesn’t have enough common sense to evacuate a burning building.”

 

“No, obviously he doesn’t… _know_. But maybe some part of him realizes there’s no actual connection, even if he’ll never have enough of a functioning brain to be aware of it. Intuition is a strange thing. And Robert is a strange man.”

 

“Among many other things.”

 

_An idiot, a drunkard, lonely, bored, undeserving of his station in life and the wife he was given…_

Jaime sighs. “Fuck Robert.”

 

“That’s precisely what I’m trying _not_ to do, at the moment.”

 

Jaime forces himself not to laugh, knowing that such a reaction would probably _not_ make Cersei very happy.

 

(Cersei, meanwhile, appreciates the fact that her brother has enough sense and courtesy not to laugh at such a joke so close to her current struggle that it’s not really much of a joke at all.)

 

“Why do you try so hard to put up with him?”

 

Cersei laughs her biting, golden laugh, “I’d hardly call it ‘putting up with him.’ As we just mentioned, I spend my days openly mocking him and most of my nights trying to think of inconspicuous ways to murder him in his sleep.”

 

“So why haven’t you?”

 

“People would ask too many questions. The right opportunity hasn’t exactly presented itself.”

 

“Then let _me_ do it.”

 

“You’ve already slain one king; I won’t let you slay a second.”

 

“Why not? ‘Kingslayer’ is hardly much of a nickname if it’s only happened once.”

 

“Please, don’t.” Her features soften, begging him to let _her_ be the one to take back her own life, begging him not to soil his reputation any further, for both of their sakes.

 

_A slight against one is a slight against them both_.

 

He thinks (knows) he’ll revisit the subject later, but he relents for now.

 

A smirk spreads across Jaime’s face. “You know,” he jests, “My nickname _really_ doesn’t make any sense, considering _you’re_ the expert in eliminating those of higher birth.”

 

“Me?” she asks flatly, “Whatever do you mean by that?”

 

“Come on, Cersei, when you were Joffrey’s age, you were already scheming to take down Lysa Tully after her family visited.”

 

“She insulted your hair.”

 

And he laughs because that is _so like Cersei_ , and he loves her for it.

 

“If you _had_ taken her down, how would everything be different, I wonder…?” He gasps mockingly, “Father might have shipped you off to _Jon Arryn._ ” He gasps overdramatically again, “ _He_ might be Joffrey’s father.”

 

“That’s ridiculous.” She looks at him with the expression she’d worn when they were nine and Jaime had decided to wade into a tide pool infested with giant crabs in order to retrieve a wooden sword he’d dropped in it. The one that said, “You’re so much smarter than this,” and “If the gods have _any_ mercy, you’ll change your mind,” and “It’s so disgustingly charming that you think you’re right.”

 

“Really? Why’s that?”

 

“Because the only man I’d ever want to father my children is you.” She says this like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. As if it’s a fact as self-evident as the sun rising in the east or winter being cold.

 

(To her it _is_ the most obvious thing in the world. Jaime is hers, she is his, and it’s the only simple thing in her life.)

 

“You know, I think I’d rather be called ‘ _Queen_ slayer.’ ”

 

“And why is that?”

 

Jaime grabs both of her shoulders, slams her backwards on the bed in the corner, and crawls over her, his face now inches from hers. “I think you know why.”

 

She arches a delicate eyebrow. “Do you really want to suggest you’re about to kill me if you’re trying to bed me right now?”

 

“I’m suggesting that a true man show you what marriage to a queen is supposed to mean.”

 

_He might be notorious for breaking oaths, but this was one he could keep._

 

Cersei’s eyes flutter closed.

 

“A man such as Galladon would _never_ let a queen be treated so.”

 

“If you fancy yourself as Galladon, does that make me the Maiden?” she asks drily.

 

Jaime leans his head down right next to her ear and murmurs lovingly, _filthily_ , “Oh,I think not, _sister_.”

 

And as Cersei hears herself emitting a moan so soft she doubts even Jaime can hear it, that’s the moment she knows that, come fire or flood, she is _not_ moving from this spot.

 

He wrenches up her dress and begins unlacing his breeches, when Cersei grabs his wrist and says, “No. I want to see all of you.”

 

He flips her around with all of the deftness he possesses and slowly, _painstakingly_ drags her smallclothes down her legs and begins unlacing the back of her dress, and _why do women have to wear so many bloody layers!?_ Cersei tenses with frustration and snatches his hand with hers, moving them under her dress together to her right upper thigh. She curls his nails into her leg and runs their joined hands up and down with a roughness they both logically know shouldn’t feel _nearly_ as good as it does. Jaime sees Cersei close her eyes before her mouth goes slack and she starts making those _magnificent_ uninhibited gasps that Jaime loves so much. She moves his hand back to the laces of her dress; she gasps out his name, and Jaime thinks that noise will be the death of him.

 

Once he finally loosens everything, Cersei pushes herself up into a sitting position and slides her dress over her head and off her body with utmost grace before practically ripping off the muslin around her breasts. They make eye contact, a line of invisible fire running between them before Cersei smirks at him and begins stripping him of his armor and everything underneath. until both of them are as naked as their name day. Jaime gingerly places his armor in the corner, and when he turns around, Cersei is pushing her hair behind her neck, letting it cascade down past her shoulder blades; Jaime almost forgets to breathe.

 

They drink each other in for a moment, looking over every patch of skin, every curve and line and scar and tension, despite the fact that they’ve memorized it all years ago.

 

They both move at once, and Cersei is lying down, Jaime straddling her, eyes locked on each other for the briefest of moments before Jaime mouths her neck and a _very_ unladylike sound escapes from the back of Cersei’s throat.

 

Jaime starts kissing his way down her body, raking his nails over her breasts and punctuating every few inches with a bite. Never enough to make a mark, though.

 

_He doesn’t have the luxury of claiming her as his like Robert does_.

 

When he reaches her stomach, her hands find his cock and start stroking back and forth in an erratic rhythm that only makes sense to the two of them-not painful, but certainly not gentle.Which is fine by him _._

 

_Leave gentleness to the smallfolk_.

 

The harder Jaime grows, the wetter Cersei gets. They have always been one, bodies attuned to each other in a way impossible to describe, each action a reflex born of their sameness.

 

Not wishing to push Jaime to the edge too soon, Cersei removes her hands and trails her fingers down his chest, skin-on-skin contact that causes gooseflesh to erupt all over both of them.

 

She moves to grab his shoulders, but he grabs her wrists and pins them down on the bed above her head. “No,” he growls, “Don’t move.”

 

Cersei shudders deliciously at the authority bleeding from his words, emitting a breathy gasp that sparks a reciprocal shiver in Jaime.

 

_This is the only domain where she can be a subject instead of a queen_.

 

Jaime brings her hands to her chest and transfers both of her wrists to his left hand while the fingers of his right dive into her. The instant he makes contact, Cersei grunts animalistically, starting to arch toward him before remembering his command and relaxing down into the bed.

 

“Good,” he rumbles.

 

He kneads her expertly, as deftly and effortlessly as if he were touching himself.

 

(Which, funnily enough, he never does. Why would he when the real thing is so close at hand and infinitely better?)

 

Cersei feels herself unraveling, an intoxicating blankness playing at the edges of her mind, her only concern more skin, more friction, more, more, _more_ …

 

As Jaime gazes down at her; with her golden hair splayed forty different directions, eyes half-closed, her entire upper body flushed in the most delicate shade of pink, head thrown backward and sideways in an angle that should be impossible for any human, she looks anything but the queen she’s supposed to be, though she still looks every bit a lioness.

 

With this picture, Jaime is seized by an overwhelming sense of _need_. He needs her eyes on his, needs her wrapped around him, needs her always.

 

And in no time at all, Cersei has opened her legs and Jaime is pounding into her, each thrust pushing them both closer and closer to something like oblivion.

 

He grabs her wrists in both hands again, hammering them down on either side of her queenly face, covering her skin with so much of his that they truly _are_ one, now.

 

Cersei digs her nails into her hands (with her arms pinned by her ears and a rule not to move, all of the tension has to go somewhere) and the pain is sweeter than any material comfort anyone has ever offered to her.

 

A fool might say she is currently in a position of weakness; but she wasn’t weak, not really.

 

Not with Jaime.

 

Jaime speeds up, the friction between them a brilliantly burning fire threatening to engulf them both.

 

Cersei screams. It’s a roar to rival even the most majestic lioness.

 

Jaime thinks that if he died like this, he’d die happy.

 

He scrapes one of his feet across hers, a reference to the first time they ever touched outside of their mother’s womb.

 

It’s the same foot he was grabbing when they both squirmed into the world.

 

At least, Cersei thinks it is. She thinks that, even though it’s the first thing she ever experienced, even though she was a newborn babe, she ought to remember. She shuts her eyes tighter and tries to slow her breathing, to clear her mind to think, to make absolutely sure. Because to forget him, forget _this_ , is to forget herself.

 

_This is the foot,_ she decides after a brief moment of deliberation. _I’m certain_.

 

(She’s right, it is.)

 

Cersei keeps screaming, which would surely draw attention if this tower were ever used by anyone else. She keeps getting progressively louder until all of the noise and all of the contact and all of the sensations and feelings get to be too much to bear.

 

Jaime opens his eyes and growls, “Do you have to scream so bloody much?”

 

Cersei’s eyes snap open, and she glowers, matching his frowning scowl with one of her own. “Perhaps if my tongue were otherwise occupied, I wouldn’t be so loud.”

 

He doesn’t need to be told twice. His mouth is on hers with such ferocity he might as well be fighting a battle instead of kissing his lover.

 

He’s too far gone now to keep a hold on Cersei’s wrists anymore, and she uses this lapse to take both of his hands in hers and entwine their fingers above her head at the moment when they both climax.

 

_A queen and her faithful knight._

 

Theirs is a love legendary as Florian and Jonquil. But there would not be a song for them; there couldn’t be. But they didn’t need one. They were so much more than words on a paper that changed every time someone intoned them.

 

With each other, they are already whole.

 

And, for that one moment of ecstasy, Cersei feels no fear of discovery, no fear for her children, no fear of losing the power she has fought her whole life to sustain. They truly are the only people left in the world.

 

(That security won’t last forever, of course. To think so would be laughably unrealistic, and horribly naïve.)

 

Once everything has subsided, Jaime pulls himself out and they lie side by side on the bed, Cersei absentmindedly drawing shapes on Jaime’s arm. His brain is still a bit foggy, and it takes him a while to pick up on the fact that Cersei is _humming_.

 

_And not just some silly tune, she’s humming…_

 

“Let Me Drink Your Beauty In?”

 

She shrugs and smiles knowingly.

 

_A love song_.

 

And not just any love song, probably the most erotic, drippy love song that’s ever been created.

 

_Of course this song_ Cersei thinks. _It references alcohol and beauty_ - _the two things I personally possess that have kept me alive for this long._

 

“Call it a guilty pleasure.”

 

(Jaime secretly loved it too, but that was something even Cersei didn’t need to know.)

 

There is no song that Cersei can sing that could ever describe them-not when they defy the laws of gods and men alike. But it’s the closest she can find.

 

So it will have to make do for them both until the next time they sing their silent song of whispers and sighs, of caresses and scratches, of kisses and seed.

 

A song of gold and crimson: the colors of their house, of themselves, and of the people who made them.

 

Nine months later, Myrcella is born.


End file.
